


We Gather Together

by coralysendria



Category: Independence Day (Movies)
Genre: Families of Choice, Family, Gen, Holidays, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 00:31:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13042779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coralysendria/pseuds/coralysendria
Summary: Connie and David host Thanksgiving 1996.





	We Gather Together

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jedibuttercup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedibuttercup/gifts).



> This was written for Yuletide 2017, for jedibuttercup. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely Bethynyc.

David watched the missile coming in, calculating trajectory, where it was likely to strike, and the force of that strike. He ran forward a few steps, put his arm up, and snagged it from the crisp November air. He juggled it only briefly before returning fire. His opponent's arm went up and he, likewise, picked the Frisbee from the air, then sent it sailing in the direction of the other person in the yard, who caught it, executed a neat turn and sent it sailing back at David, all in one beautiful motion.

This time David's calculations were not so successful; the Frisbee flew between his hands, landing practically in the cornfield next door. He jogged after it. He returned from retrieving the disk, to find his opponents side by side, laughing at him.

He grinned in response. "I should've known better than to take on two combat pilots," he called.

"Damn straight," Steve Hiller replied. He nudged his companion with his shoulder. "On the ground, in the air...."

"You can't beat us anywhere," Tom Whitmore finished with a grin. He pushed his disheveled hair back with one hand and shared a fist bump with Steve with the other.

They were supposed to be raking leaves in the wide front lawn of Connie's farmhouse in Vermont where the Hillers and Whitmores had joined the Levinsons for Thanksgiving. To be fair, they _had_ raked a good portion of the lawn before Steve discovered the grubby blue Frisbee at the foot of one of the huge old oaks and sent it sailing toward David with a shouted "Heads up!" It quickly became an unspoken rule that anyone who had to run through a leaf pile to catch the Frisbee lost.

This area had escaped the alien invasion unscathed. For all of them, it was a welcome change. David and Steve spent much of their time in the Nevada desert at Area 51 where David headed up the research into the alien technology, but Tom was in D. C., and while the rebuilding of the city proceeded apace, there was a constant pall of stirred-up ash in the air. Clean-up and construction work had had to be halted for two days in order to allow the ash to settle enough that Tom could record his Thanksgiving address to the nation on the freshly-sodded front lawn of the new White House -- which was, as yet, mostly a facade. It was the symbol that was important; other world capitals were reconstructing their government administration buildings in much the same fashion. Even landmarks were being rebuilt; in Paris, the new Eiffel Tower was already well on its way to its former height.

Connie's parents had died a few years before the invasion. The farmhouse had been left to her and her brother, but then Danny had died in a car crash. With vague thoughts about having a place to retire someday, she had held onto the property. Now, it provided a welcome respite from...everything. At least the election was over -- not that there had been even the slightest chance that Tom wouldn't be reelected for a second term, not after leading the nation to victory over the invaders, even if he hadn't dealt the final blow himself.

"Daddy, can we play, now?" Tom's daughter Patricia frowned at them from the front porch where she was waiting with Steve's stepson Dylan. The two had become fast friends since the past summer, and were frequently inseparable. Dylan's faithful yellow lab Boomer sat between them, tongue lolling. 

Tom's demeanor changed instantly, his grin softening from cocky to paternal. "Sorry, Munchkin. We didn't mean to monopolize the Frisbee."

Dylan wrinkled his nose. "Monopolize," he said, enunciating each syllable carefully. "What does _that_ mean?"

"It means they get to play and we don't." Patricia scowled, her face a miniature thundercloud. "Don't use big words, Daddy."

Tom was immediately contrite. "You're right; that was rude of me. I apologize, Munchkin."

David hid a smile behind a hand, but Steve was grinning outright. He had confided to David recently that he was glad Dylan and Patricia had remained friends, and both pleased and a bit surprised that the president's daughter was allowed to associate with a mere pilot's son. David's response was a shrug. "They're just people, Steve. Trust me. They need us, too."

The little girl smiled, storm clouds giving way to sunshine. "That's all right, Daddy. We forgive you." She turned to David, who was still holding the Frisbee. "May we have the Frisbee now, Uncle David?"

"Sure, Munchkin." He, in turn, was a bit surprised at how easily he'd fallen into addressing the little girl with the nickname that her father and Connie used. He had grown astonishingly fond of her -- and of Dylan, too -- in the last few months. He had never really though of himself in proximity to children; he and Connie never had definite plans for a family. He had always just assumed that it would happen eventually. But then they had divorced, and...well. He still wasn't entirely certain about _babies,_ but he was enjoying having Patricia and Dylan around, even if it was only for a few days. Or maybe _because_ it was only for a few days.

The little girl ran over to him, her long braid bouncing on her back, Dylan and Boomer trailing after. She accepted the Frisbee from David with grave thanks, then kids and dog ran off to the other end of the fenced yard and began tossing the Frisbee back and forth while Boomer lolloped around them with a doggy grin and an occasional _woof_.

David lowered himself to the porch steps; Steve and Tom joined him a moment later. "They're quite good at that," he said as Dylan leapt after a strong toss from Patricia. 

Steve grinned. "Kids. They go for things with everything they got. Not afraid to get in front of it." He shook his head. "Dylan told me the other night that he wants to be a fighter pilot like me so if the aliens come back, he can blast 'em. He was pretending to shoot them with a toy gun the morning they showed up."

"Patricia said pretty much the same thing." Tom shook his head, watching his daughter contemplatively. "I don't know whether to be proud or terrified."

"Both." Steve gave him a sidelong look of parental commiseration and Tom conceded the point with a nod.

"Do you think they _will_ come back?" David hesitated to break the mood, because he had been enjoying the day, but it was a pressing question -- not just for them. The whole world scanned the night skies with bated breath; SETI and NASA (along with space agencies in other countries) had found their funding suddenly quadrupled.

Steve leaned forward and locked eyes with him. "You don't?"

David sighed. "I _hope_ they won't. But...." He shrugged helplessly.

"I, for one," Tom said firmly, " _know_ that they're coming back. And we _have_ to be ready for them." He continued to watch the kids play, apparently oblivious to David and Steve eyeing one another across him. He rarely spoke about his telepathic contact with the alien in the Vault at Area 51, but it had affected him deeply. Everyone who knew about it was concerned, especially since unsettling reports were beginning to surface of other survivors who had experienced such contact. Many were beginning to exhibit symptoms of mental illness. And in the hospital at Area 51, Brakish Okun was _still_ in a coma nearly five months later.

"I _thought_ you boys came out here to rake leaves." They turned to find Jasmine Hiller standing behind them, her hands on her hips, and a stern expression on her face.

Steve jumped immediately to his feet and bounded to her side. "Hey, babe, how's the cooking going?" he asked with a kiss.

"Don't think you can change the subject that easily, Captain Hiller," she said, but her eyes sparkled. "I was going to offer you boys a beer since you were working so hard, but now I find you're not working at all."

Steve gasped in mock outrage. "You dare refuse a beer to your own husband? Not to mention the President of the United States?" He gestured dramatically in Tom's direction.

Tom waved his hand, laughing. "None for me, thanks."

Jasmine raised an eyebrow. "You sure? We got the good stuff--"

A shriek sounded from the yard, and the adults all jerked around, hearts thudding...to find Dylan and Patricia tumbling out of a pile of leaves. The Frisbee lay discarded in the middle of the yard. A pair of patient eyes in the middle of another leaf pile was the only sign of Boomer.

The porch door banged open. "I heard a scream," Connie gasped.

David held up a calming hand, pointing down at the kids, who continued to romp in the leaves, shrieking with laughter, unaware of the concern they'd caused. "Look," he said softly. "Look at them. No more talk about the future. Not right now. Today is for family...and I have never had a chance to roll in leaves." He got up from the porch steps and ambled down toward the kids, picking up a discarded rake along the way. "Hey, kids," they heard him call, "can I join you?"

"Sure, Uncle David," Patricia said, "can you rake up more leaves for us?"

"My pleasure, Munchkin. My pleasure"

~*~*~

Around mid-afternoon, the weather changed. The day went from sunny and crisp to grey and threatening in the space of half an hour. The wind picked up and everyone trooped inside as the first spatters of cold rain hit the leaf-covered front lawn. David stowed the rakes in the garage. The leaves would have to be raked again tomorrow, but it was worth it.

Connie and Jasmine were sitting at the kitchen table in the breakfast nook, deep in conversation, glasses of wine at their elbows, when David entered the warm farmhouse kitchen. He sniffed appreciatively as he washed his hands in the kitchen sink where dishes were already piled and waiting.

"Something smells good," he said, stooping to kiss Connie.

She pulled pieces of leaf from his hair. "Rolling around on the ground with the kids? Very dignified, David."

He grinned at her. "Lots of fun. You should give it a try sometime. Very therapeutic. I think Tom should institute Leaf Days when he returns to Washington."

She laughed. "Somehow I can't see someone like General Grey rolling around on the ground getting leaves in his hair."

"Oh, sure, you can't now," David said, "because you're picturing him all stiff and proper in his uniform. Get him out of that? He'd just love the chance to roll around on the ground. Bet he's got grandkids somewhere who'd just love a chance to jump in leaves with Grandpa."

It was the wrong thing to say. Connie's eyes darkened and she looked away. "He did, once."

David exchanged a helpless look with Jasmine. She reached out and patted Connie's hand while he dropped a comforting hand on Connie's shoulder. "Ah, nuts," he said. "I'm sorry. I just, uh, I just forgot for a second, honey."

She shook her head, and sniffed. She turned her palm over and clasped Jasmine's fingers for just a moment, at the same time putting her other hand over David's. "It's okay, David. I just...I met them once. They were sweet kids. They were a little older than the Munchkin."

"Are we sure they're gone?" Jasmine asked. "It's only been a few months; people are still turning up all the time."

Connie nodded. "Yes, we're sure. He sent them to NORAD."

"Oh." NORAD had been destroyed very early on in the invasion. Jasmine shook her head. "Poor man."

"He did his best for them," David said. "It's all any of us could do -- just our best."

Connie sniffled one more time. "I know." She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and dabbed at her face. "Look at me! I didn't cry for months, and now I'm crying for children I only met one time."

David gave her a one-armed hug. "It's all right, honey. It's all right." He cast about for a way to change the subject. There was a relish tray on the table next to Jasmine and a chopping board at her elbow. She had obviously been taking a break from chopping celery sticks when he came in. He reached around Connie with one long arm and snagged a pickle. He popped the gherkin in his mouth to Jasmine's sound of annoyance.

"Don't you be coming in here and stealing food now, Mister," she said in a dangerous tone. "I just had to shoo my own husband out of here, and I'll tell you what I told him: dinner will be ready in an hour or so. You won't starve to death before then."

"I might."

"I'm not thinking so."

"David," Connie said firmly. "Get out of my kitchen. Go."

"Ma'am," David said, winking at Jasmine. "Yes, ma'am."

His wife's laughter followed him out of the kitchen.

~*~*~

Connie watched the kitchen door swing shut behind David, then turned to Jasmine. She tucked the slightly damp tissue back into her pocket. "Okay. Now, what was it you wanted to ask me?"

Jasmine looked uncharacteristically nervous. She played with the stem of her wine goblet, her long nails tapping against the glass. After a moment, she sighed, and met Connie's eyes. "I know you know what I did for a living before the invasion."

Connie nodded. "You were a dancer."

_"Exotic_ dancer," Jasmine replied, stressing the word.

Connie shrugged. "So?" 

"It's good money," Jasmine said. "I was doing it for Dylan."

"Jasmine." Connie reached across the table and stilled Jasmine's tapping fingers. "You are a great mother. You had a job that provided for yourself and your son. That's all anyone could ask for. What's bothering you?"

"I don't want to do that anymore," Jasmine said. "Don't get me wrong -- I'm not ashamed of it. It's just...people put you in boxes, you know? I don't want to be stuck in the Captain Hiller's Wife Used To Be A Stripper box."

Connie frowned. "First of all, anyone who is putting you in _any_ kind of _Captain Hiller's Wife_ box needs to come talk to me. I'll set them straight. Second...what do you want to do, instead?"

Jasmine took a deep breath. "I want to go to school. I never had the opportunity before, because I always had to take care of Dylan. Now, though...now there's Steve, and Dylan is old enough for school, and he spends a lot of time with Patricia -- and don't think _that_ ain't weird having the President of the United States babysit your kid. So...now I think I could do it."

Connie smiled at the thought of Tom Whitmore babysitting Dylan and Patricia. "You know that Tom is fond of Dylan, right? He loves kids, but he'll never have any more. He's like one of those birds that mates for life. Without Marilyn...." She shook her head with a sigh.

"She's part of the reason I want to do this, actually," Jasmine said. "I felt so helpless that day. I knew she was dying and there was nothing -- _nothing_ \-- I could do to help. And I kept remembering that before I got pregnant, I was going to be a nurse. And maybe if I had, I could've helped her."

"You know there was nothing that could be done for her," Connie said gently. "Even the doctors at Area 51, with all the best equipment, couldn't save her."

Jasmine nodded. Connie could see tears sparkling in her eyelashes. "I know. But still...." She smiled sadly. "So, anyway, that's what I want to do. I want to go to nursing school, and I figure now is the time to do it."

Connie nodded. "Everyone is getting second chances now. I think you need to go for this. Grab it and hold it tight. And if there's anything I can do for you, to help, you let me know right away, okay? I mean it, Jasmine. Anything."

Jasmine ducked her head, briefly. "Thanks, Connie. You're the best."

Connie raised her goblet. "A toast, I think. To you. You're going to be the best nurse, ever."

"Damn straight," Jasmine replied, raising her goblet. "Damn straight."

~*~*~

Julius looked up as his son came out of the kitchen. The dining room table was already set for Thanksgiving dinner, crystal wine goblets sparkling and china plates gleaming in the light from the small chandelier. Julius had been in this house once before, when David and Constance were first married. That first Thanksgiving, her parents -- God rest their souls -- had invited him to be part of their celebration. The same china and crystal was on the table now. Julius appreciated the connection to the past, and understood how Constance must feel, especially now, after that horrible business this past summer.

And now here they were at another first Thanksgiving. David and Constance were remarried -- though he did feel that they should not have been married at Area 51 by the base chaplain. The thing should have been done properly, but David had rarely taken his advice, and they were in a hurry.

"Dad," David had said, "do you _really_ think, after all this, that God is going to mind what words we say?"

And while he did, he'd've been a schmuck to say so at that point, not with David being one of the heroes of the hour, and Constance looking at him with that light in her eyes. He would just have take comfort in the fact that they had at least done it with the proper ceremony and reverence the first time.

At least he now had renewed hope of someday having grandchildren. Constance was a career woman; he understood that. But surely she would want children of her own at some point? Julius adored children; he had so looked forward to becoming a grandfather, and having little ones around again to whom he could tell stories and with whom he could play games. It was why he was currently sitting in the dining room at the card table playing Chutes and Ladders with Patricia and Dylan. It was why he would likely have dinner at the Kids Table on plastic plates instead of sitting at that beautifully-set main table. That he was the surrogate grandfather for the children of both the President of the United States and the fighter pilot who was now a national hero never ceased to amaze him. He would still like to have grandchildren of his own, mind, but for now....

"Hey, Pops," David said, pausing beside the table. "Who's winning?"

"It's hard to say at this point," Julius replied, casting an eye on the board. "I think we may end up in a tie."

David smiled. "I'm sure someone will win."

"Probably. Perhaps later, you and I could play a game of chess? There's a set in the game chest."

"Sure, Pops. I'm told dinner will be about an hour. I'm going to go watch the game with Tom and Steve, okay?"

Julius flapped a hand at his son in dismissal. "Go. Enjoy yourself. These little ones and I are conducting important business here, right, kids?"

"Yeah!" Dylan said, without looking up from the game board, where his piece was poised at the bottom of a cartoon ladder.

"It's your turn, Mr. Levinson." Patricia held the die out to him in one chubby little hand, and he accepted it with grave thanks, rolling for his turn as David moved past the table with a smile.

~*~*~

Steve didn't look up when David dropped onto the seriously ugly plaid couch next to him. The game was tied, and he didn't want to miss a second of it. When the news first broke that the NFL was considering going ahead with a football season -- about half the teams had weathered the invasion -- there had been a great deal of outrage in certain quarters. _It was disrespectful of those lost in the invasion,_ it was said. _The resources used in NFL games would be better directed elsewhere,_ others agreed. But the President -- and Steve still occasionally had a hard time reconciling the guy seated in the recliner next to the couch, his eyes on the television, _his friend Tom_ , as the President of the freakin' United States -- had come out _for_ the idea of a football season. _It wasn't disrespect,_ he said, in an interview. _We were fighting for our way of life,_ he said, _and what's more American than the NFL?_

Steve was pretty sure that statement won a _lot_ of votes, but it was unlikely that too many people were going to vote for Nimzicki, anyway. Steve hadn't met the man more than that one time at Area 51, but he knew a weasel when he saw one.

So Kansas City and Detroit were battling it out. Steve hoped the game was going to be done before dinner. They were taping it, but even so, it was much more exciting live.

"Your wife is fierce," David said. "She nearly took my fingers off with a knife."

"You tried to steal something from the kitchen, didn't you. Don't mess with Jasmine when she's cooking."

"Didn't look she was cooking to me. Looked like she was drinking wine with _my_ wife."

"If that's the case," Tom said, "you're both screwed. It's been nice knowing you."

Steve rolled his eyes. He was obviously going to have to watch the tape later. That was the trouble with smart guys. They might _say_ they were interested in the game, but they really weren't. This was one of those times when he _really_ missed hanging out with the rest of the Black Knights -- especially Jimmy. They wouldn't've been trying to _talk_ during the game.

"Now what's that supposed to mean?" he asked, tearing his eyes from the screen.

Tom shrugged. "Your wives having serious discussions in the kitchen over wine? Any guy will tell you that you're both doomed." For a moment, something flickered across his face, and Steve remembered that one of the reasons that he knew the freakin' President of the United States well enough to play Frisbee with him and call him by his first name was because _his_ wife had rescued _Tom's_ wife from the wreckage of her helicopter in L. A. and brought her to El Toro.

"Maybe I should go check on them," Steve said.

David put a restraining hand on his arm before he managed to get to his feet. "It's, uh, not worth it. Not worth it at all. Whatever it is, we'll find out about it. Hopefully in private."

"On the other hand," Tom said, leaning around David, "it might not hurt to just wander into the kitchen and kiss the wife of your choice." He considered it gravely for a moment. "I'd probably choose your own wife, since David is a jealous man, but that's between the four of you." He smiled crookedly at David.

"Say what now?" Steve stared at David. 

"You're never going to let me live that down, are you," David said with a plaintive note.

"No, probably not," Tom said. "C'mon, it's a good story. How many people get to say that they punched the president and got away with it?"

"You weren't the president, then," David protested.

"You _punched the president_?" Steve said. He looked over at Tom. "He punched you? When was this? How come I never heard about it? What the hell?"

David looked annoyed, but Tom's eyes were twinkling, and Steve suddenly understood that he was being let in on a private joke. David heaved a sigh.

"Fine. It was _before_ Tom was president. I--"

"He thought Connie was having an affair with me," Tom said. "And while I am flattered -- more or less -- I would never have done something like that to Marilyn." His face clouded, and he sank back into his chair, looking back at the television.

Steve and David exchanged a look. David winked slowly and solemnly, then said, "What do you mean, 'more or less?' Are you implying that there's something wrong with my wife?"

From there, the conversation devolved into squabbling and trash talk that wouldn't have been out of place in the barracks after all. Steve never did get to see the rest of the game, but he didn't really mind.

Besides, he could always watch the tape later with Dylan.

~*~*~

David wasn't sure what woke him. For a moment, he lay in the dark bedroom listening, but he heard nothing except Connie's soft, even breathing beside him. It was 1:30 a.m. by the glowing hands of the old-fashioned alarm clock on the bedside table. He frowned into the darkness; they'd sent the kids to bed around 9:00, but the adults had only gone to bed around midnight. 

It had been a pleasant evening. Dinner had been excellent, and Jasmine and Connie had both smiled with pleasure at the compliments. They had watched a movie -- _The Princess Bride_ \-- on the big television in the den, then while Connie, Tom, Jasmine, and Steve played a cutthroat game of pinochle, David and his father had played a couple of games of chess. 

A door opened, and was pulled softly to, as if the person did not want to wake anyone. He and Connie were in the master bedroom; Tom had the room directly across the hall. Steve and Jasmine were in Connie's old bedroom next to that. Across the hall from them, the kids had been delighted to discover the bunk beds in Connie's brother's room; they had solved the problem of who got the bottom bunk when Boomer crawled into it, then looked expectantly at Dylan. David's father was downstairs on the sofa-bed in the den. So. Tom, then. He closed his eyes and was relaxing back into sleep when he heard footsteps on the stairs, instead of going toward the bathroom at the end of the hall. He sighed silently, then carefully swung his legs out of bed. Grabbing his robe, he headed downstairs.

Connie had left nightlights on in case the kids should get up in the night. By that dim illumination, he could make out the huddled shape on the couch.

He deliberately scraped his foot as he stepped off the last stair, but the person on the couch didn't move. Definitely Tom; Steve would've straightened up immediately and not allowed anyone other than Jasmine -- and possibly not even her -- to see any kind of distress. He moved around the furniture.

Tom sat on the end of the couch, wrapped in a plaid robe. As David stopped in front of him, he slowly reached up and turned on the lamp on the end table. The soft golden light revealed the marks of tears on his face, but David didn't look away. If Tom didn't want him to know that something was wrong, he wouldn't have turned on the light. The gesture showed how very far their friendship had come since the events of the past summer. David maneuvered himself carefully into the chair set at right angles to the couch so as to avoid barking his shins on the coffee table.

He studied the signs of misery on Tom's face. "Couldn't sleep?"

The corner of Tom's mouth twitched. He shook his head. "Nope. You?"

"I heard someone moving and thought that as a good host, I should offer some hot chocolate or something."

Tom frowned. "Technically, Connie is the host," he pointed out.

"Well, yes, technically," David agreed. "But she's still asleep. So I'm the acting host." He splayed his hand against his chest, and bowed halfway.

Tom came closer to smiling at that. "I didn't mean to wake anyone. I'm sorry."

David shrugged. "It's okay. Seriously, though, can I get you something?"

Tom leaned wearily against the back of the couch. "You know...hot chocolate doesn't sound half bad."

David nodded. "I'll be right back." He went into the kitchen, flipping on the light, but making sure that the swinging door shut behind him, and busied himself with making hot chocolate. To each of the three mugs -- he'd heard the slight noise from upstairs -- he added a small measure of adult seasoning because...well, because they were all adults and because if something was that upsetting, they were probably going to want the fortification. He put the mugs on a tray, grabbed a tin of cookies -- what the heck -- and headed back into the living room.

As expected, Connie was sitting on the couch next to Tom. Despite the hour, even in a robe and pink fuzzy slippers, she looked immaculate, and David's heart skipped a beat. _That's my wife,_ he thought. _My wife!_ It felt so good to be able to say that again. As he lowered the tray to the coffee table, Connie moved her hand from Tom's arm to snag a mug. She met David's eyes as though daring him to comment.

"Three mugs?"

He shrugged. "I figured you'd be down." He settled back into the chair and took a mug himself. It was still a little too hot to drink. He was pleased that Tom also took a mug, sitting with his hands cupped about it, as though he required the warmth. Perhaps he did.

"All right, Tom," Connie said. "Out with it."

David raised an eyebrow. "Really, honey? _Out with it?_ I was going to let him get to it in his own time."

She shrugged. "I know him better than you do."

He nodded, acknowledging the point. "True enough. All right, then." He turned back to Tom, who had a faint smile on his face. "Uh...out with it."

Tom closed his eyes on a helpless laugh. "You two are terrible." He sighed, and looked at them, first Connie, then David. "It was just a nightmare. Nothing important. I just didn't think I'd get back to sleep again."

David narrowed his eyes. He sipped from his hot chocolate. Tom mirrored him, his own eyes widening as the booze hit his tongue.

"Wow," he gasped. "That's some hot chocolate."

"My mother's recipe," David said mendaciously.

Connie reached across Tom to swat David's knee. "Your mother never touched alcohol. And you don't usually, either."

David shrugged. "Special circumstances." He sat forward a bit in the chair. "Tell us, Tom. What is it? You know we'll do whatever we can to help."

Tom sat back. Sipped his hot chocolate again, then went back to holding the mug in his cupped hands. "Marilyn would have loved today," he began. "She adored family holidays. She would sometimes go annoy the kitchen staff by trying to help out with holiday baking. She felt that it was her responsibility, you know? Her mother used to turn out baked goods by the gross around the holidays. She wanted to provide as normal an experience as possible for Patricia, even though we'd be out of the White House by the time she was eleven, even with a second term. Plenty of time to give her normal family holidays after that." He paused. Sipped hot chocolate. Looked at Connie, then at David. "You always think you have plenty of time. But that's not necessarily true. Don't you two waste it."

Connie put a hand on his arm. "Tom...."

He put his cup down and laid a hand over hers. Tears coursed down his face. "It's okay, Connie. It'll be okay. It's just...this is our first holiday without her, and on top of the nightmare...."

David frowned, not at his wife comforting the man who was still her boss, but at the mention of nightmares. "Nightmare?" he prompted softly.

Connie looked at him, a slight frown on her face, but Tom nodded. "Yeah." He slanted a glance in David's direction. "Not really surprising, all things considered."

David shook his head. "No. Not surprising. Lots of people are having nightmares now." He cocked his head, narrowed his eyes. "But you've had this one before."

Tom's eyebrows rose in surprise. "How did...?" He shook his head. "I always forget that you really _are_ that smart. Yes. I've had this one before."

"Since the invasion. Since your contact with that alien in the Vault."

Tom nodded. He raised the mug to his lips, met David's eyes over it, as if daring him to figure out the rest, but David already knew the shape of it; it was in his own nightmares, and he _hadn't_ had contact with an alien mind to imprint the horror on him.

"They're coming back." He heard Connie gasp, which she covered by sipping at her hot chocolate. "They're really coming back."

Tom closed his eyes and his shoulders slumped. He nodded, once. "Yes."

"When?" Connie asked, in a slightly shrill voice. She cleared her throat, and when she spoke again, it was in her normal tones. "Do you know?"

"No. I don't think it'll be soon. I think we have some time. But we have to be ready. We _have_ to be, or we won't survive a second attack."

David's quick mind had already made the connection. "That ship that landed in Africa. It sent out a signal before it went dark. You think it was a distress call."

"No. I don't _think_ it was. I'm _certain_ it was." Tom opened his eyes. "David. You have to get us ready."

"Me? I, uh...I don't think _I'm_ the one--"

Tom raised his hand sharply, and for just a second, he was the President of the United States, but when David fell silent, his hand dropped and he was just Tom again, just a man who had awakened from a nightmare and was drinking spiked hot chocolate in a family living room. "We're forming a new agency," he said tiredly. "We'll probably break the news after the inauguration in January, or maybe on New Year's Day. We're calling it the ESD -- Earth Space Defense. It's going to be a global initiative, and while it's going to be partly military, it will have a civilian director. I want _you_ to be that director, David."

"But, Tom...surely there are better qualified people...."

"The only one better qualified would be Brakish Okun, and he's not available just now."

"There's Milton Isaacs," David felt compelled to point out. "He's studied the aliens as long as Doctor Okun has."

"He has," Tom agreed. "But he's not...."

"He's not a hero," Connie said. "He's a nice man, and very capable. But he's not the person we need in charge of this thing."

David frowned at his wife. "Hero?"

"Whether you like the word or not, David, it's how people think of you."

"I'm feeling sort of...uh...ambushed here. When were you going to mention this to me?"

Connie shrugged, but her expression was unapologetic. "Not tonight. It's still technically a secret."

"Don't blame Connie," Tom said. "There are _still_ some things she won't ever be able to tell you. You should know by now that's how this all works."

David nodded. "I do. I just didn't expect to find out about this in the wee hours of Thanksgiving night."

"Technically, it's Black Friday," Tom said, with a half-smile. "Wanna go Christmas shopping?"

"I think the mall got blown up," David retorted. He sighed. He should have known something like this was coming. He had been working closely with the team at Area 51 ever since July, and he had become their de facto leader, especially since it was his plan that had allowed Earth's forces to prevail. Then he remembered what had brought him downstairs to begin with. He locked eyes with Tom. "Tell me about your nightmares."

Tom shrugged. "I don't think that's important right now."

"I disagree, Mr. President," David said, deliberately invoking Tom's title. "It could be very important."

Tom held his gaze, searching for something. Apparently, he found what he wanted, because he closed his eyes briefly and nodded. He sat back, took a sip from his cooling mug, and started to speak.

The dreams were chaotic, as dreams so often are. Tom described flashes of memory from the alien's mind, visions of other worlds, bits and pieces of the alien's life, things for which he had no names. The dreams carried a sense of pervading terror, and around it all, a symbol. A circle with a slash partway through it. And with it all, the feeling that something was coming.

When Tom finished speaking, he was pale, his expression strained. Connie took his mug from his unresisting fingers and disappeared into the kitchen. When she returned, the liquid in the mug was not hot chocolate. She pressed it into Tom's hand, and he gulped a mouthful, then set the mug aside. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "David, we need you. You are the one person who can make this work. But it's not like we're asking you to save the world all by yourself. You're already familiar with the team there, and they all have nothing but the highest regard for you. And if it makes a difference, I'm going to speak to Steve, too, and have him formally reassigned to Area 51. He'll be your liaison to the military."

"This is a really big decision," David said.

Tom shrugged. "It's not one you need to make tonight." He paused, and when he spoke again, despite the plaid robe, and the dark circles under his eyes, he was somehow _presidential_. 

"I know you don't like that sort of thing, David. I know you'd prefer to just bury yourself in the research, and I wish you could. I really do. But the world doesn't work that way. Right now, we're still riding the high of victory. But that tide will ebb, and apathy will start to creep in. We need to seize our chance to make changes _now_ , before it all devolves into political wrangling. Because sooner or later it will. It always does. When that happens, do you want someone like Albert Nimzicki in charge?"

David shook his head at that. They'd already seen what could happen in such an instance; had they known about Area 51 immediately, a lot of things might have fallen out differently. He considered the situation from all angles, but in the end, it boiled down to whether or not he trusted someone else to do the work.

_Why you?"_ , Connie asked in his memory. _"David, why you?"_

_"You know how I'm always trying to save the planet?"_ He had responded flippantly, but wasn't that always the goal? Trying to save the planet? He had been inside the alien mothership. He had seen them. He knew just as well as Tom did, as well as Steve did. In his bones, he knew they'd be coming back. Millions in the mothership, yes. But how many more elsewhere? And if they went from planet to planet, as Tom had said after his telepathic contact with the alien prisoner, how many _other_ threats might there be? _(And how much wonder, too,_ his conscience whispered to him.) Here was another chance to save the planet. How could he refuse?

"All right. Let's do it. Let's save the planet." His mouth quirked. "Again."

Tom's expression relaxed into both relief and resolve. "Thank you, David. I was hoping we could count on you." He grinned crookedly, and raised his mug in salute. "Again."

"Still," Connie corrected. "David. You're _still_ saving the planet. It's one of the things I love about you."

"Yes, still saving the planet. But can it wait until the morning? I'd really like to get some sleep tonight. Gotta get up early for the sales, you know.” David winked at his wife, who started laughing.

"That's true," Tom said, with a nod. "I think the Munchkin wants one of those Buzz Lightyear dolls. I hear that Sears has some good sales this year." He drained his mug, and stood up. "I think I'd better get back upstairs." He paused at the bottom step and looked back. "Thanks," he said. "To both of you."

"You're welcome," David said solemnly.

"It's good booze," Tom added, as he turned away.

Connie turned off the light, and they stood in the living room, their arms about one another's waists until they heard Tom's bedroom door close. "Can you do it?" she asked softly.

He pulled her close. "I _will_ do it," he said. "After all, I just promised the President that I would."

He felt her smile. "He's a good man," she said.

"Yes. I know," David answered.

"You're both good men." Then, before David could work out a suitable response to that, she stepped back and took his hand. "C'mon, Mr. Director. Back to bed. Tomorrow's a big day."

David laughed softly, indulgently, as his wife towed him up the stairs and back to bed.


End file.
